La Belle et La Bete
by Lucifer Rosemaunt
Summary: POTO take on Beauty and the Beast. So, it’s technically not a crossover, just a phantom-ized fairy tale. ErikRaoul slash.
1. a tale to be spun

Fandom: Phantom of the Opera & Beauty and the Beast  
Disclaimer: Please don't sue. I don't own *insert fandom name from above*... All I own is an overactive imagination.  
Summary: POTO take on Beauty and the Beast. So, it's technically not a crossover, just a different telling of the fairy tale.  
Warning(s): slash   
Pairing(s): Erik/Raoul  
Word Count: 3,325

A/N: Another part of the twelve days of Christmas present. Creative title, I know. I could've named it something like the Vicomte and the Phantom (in French of course), but decided against that.  
Story note: Loosely based on a mix of Disney and the actual fairy tale. Multi-chaptered.

o.o.o.o

La Belle et la Bete  
By: Lucifer Rosemaunt

Chapter 01 – a tale to be spun

o.o.o.o

Raoul pressed against the side of the inn after stumbling upon Philippe and the innkeeper speaking. He was not supposed to be out right now, but he did not think they had seen him.

"How many days again?" The man was gruff, his voice too rasping for someone only a decade older than his brother. Raoul never truly felt at ease around him, as though the man were calculating the very cost of his existence and had come up with a low number. Or a high one that he knew not to be worthwhile.

Philippe's voice was a great contrast to the innkeeper's, baritone and smooth. Raoul nodded to himself, and it was confident. He liked to think that he could tell a lot about a person by the way they spoke. Lately, he was certain there was more than a hint of worry in his brother's.

"Simply three. I need to ride to the city for some business."

"Business." The man scoffed. Pretending to consider for a moment, he suggested, "I'll continue lodging them for that horse of yours upon your return."

"No," Philippe stated firmly. Of all the things they'd lost, that horse was the only thing they truly had left to call their own. It had originally been Raoul's, who'd named it after him, and Philippe simply refused to give his namesake away. "My brother will be working in my stead and we certainly have enough funds for those three days."

"Your poor excuse of a brother will earn less than you." Raoul didn't have to look to see the disdain on the man's face.

Philippe started to defend him but even he knew it was a useless effort. Ever since learning about this last opportunity, a property that might still be considered theirs after all the debt collectors had ravaged their estate, he and the innkeeper had repeated this conversation, and each time the man denigrated his brother and tried to procure his horse. The old man simply refused to believe a man more than half Philippe's age could work just as hard.

"He will work _exceptionally_ and it will be sufficient," Philippe stated with finality.

The innkeeper grumbled in agreement before walking away.

Raoul hung his head in shame, leaning heavily against the wall. He was always causing problems for his brother. If only he could do something in return. He clenched his jaw, lifted his head, and stood up straight. _This_ was his chance to do something for his family; there was no time to feel sorry for himself. His brother was counting on him to take care of their sisters, and he simply couldn't let him or them down.

The bravado leaving him, he sagged against the wall again, sighing. In the least, he would try to survive the three days Philippe was gone. For now though, he had to return to the room before Philippe discovered that he'd not only followed him outside but that he'd been listening in on their conversation. Trying to sneak back, he failed to notice his shirt had caught against a bush until it broke free and the bush shook violently. He winced and stopped dead in his tracks. When he heard nothing, he was just about to try moving again when a voice called out.

"Raoul. Come here."

He wondered if he could run off, claim that it had simply been an animal and pretend he hadn't heard, but it would only unnecessarily stress Philippe. So, he turned, ready to dutifully go to his brother only to find that Philippe was already there.

"Oh, what are you doing here, brother?" Raoul asked, pretending to be surprised.

Philippe rolled his eyes but decided not to comment. Instead, he motioned for Raoul to walk with him. "Let's discuss this while I gather my pack."

Raoul followed and couldn't but help state, "I do not think you should go." He even added hopefully, "It looks like rain is heading that way."

In the silent moments that followed, Philippe wondered at Raoul's reticence. He blamed himself for the dependency his brother had on him. It wasn't all unexpected, seeing how Raoul was still young, but his younger brother always proved particularly anxious whenever he left for any duration longer than a day; though, he supposed he couldn't take all the blame, considering their family history.

So, he tried to assuage his fear, "Do not see this as a bad thing, brother. We may yet have a means to return to our old life." It was a remote chance, but it had been his responsibility to care for his siblings and so far he'd managed to ruin that. He would investigate any lead that presented itself.

But, Raoul remained unconvinced. Philippe tried again, "Come now, dear brother. Your two sisters have already asked for clothing and jewelry. Do you not want for anything?"

What Raoul wanted was his brother's safe return and possibly the opportunity to leave this place, things Philippe would not be able to obtain from a trip to the city. There was nothing else he needed, but knowing Philippe would insist upon an answer, he said, "A rose." Their old estate had such grand rose bushes in the garden that he used to walk among. He missed their scent and the delicate beauty in their petals.

It took him a moment to realize Philippe was staring at him with such open fondness that Raoul turned away in embarrassment. Just outside their door, Philippe stopped abruptly and kissed Raoul upon his forehead. "You are much too young for this."

Raoul shrugged out of his hold, scowling at his brother's sentimentality. "I am not young."

His brother made a show of sighing wistfully. "Midway into your teens already." He truly looked at him, comparing the mental image he had of a little boy to this already young man. Philippe knew Raoul bemoaned the fact that he held much of their mother's countenance - more than either of their sisters in fact – believing it made him look too gentle for a male. It only made Philippe lament the loss of their parents and worry a little more for his brother than his sisters. It didn't help that Raoul seemed unable to harbor any truly deceitful or cunning machinations – a contrivance that even his sisters knew was necessary in order to survive.

He sighed, wondering what would happen once he was truly gone. Raoul looked at him in question. Philippe shook his head minutely and mussed Raoul's hair, which earned him another scowl.

He entered their room with a grin, saying, "Come. The sooner I depart, the sooner I shall return with your rose."

o.o.o

But three days came and went, as well as a fourth, and by the fifth, Raoul was sick with worry. The innkeeper threatened to evict them from their room, but the man had tempered after the first day when he'd witnessed the earnest determination Raoul had regarding his duties. Raoul realized that his threats were merely for appearance's sake.

It was late in the evening of the fifth day when Philippe returned. All it had taken was a single heavy knock upon the door and Raoul leapt from his bed immediately. Philippe stumbled in and Raoul half carried him to the bed. His sisters woke and began to light the candles.

Once illuminated, they took in Philippe's appearance with worry. His clothes were dirty, mud encrusted, and his shirt was shredded in some areas, particularly one arm. However pale he seemed, there were no visible injuries though.

"Brother." They gathered around him, and he could do little else but smile weakly at them. The frantic energy that had brought him across the countryside had dissipated, leaving him feeling unpleasantly hollow.

His elder sister seemed to come to her senses and began to order them around. They divested Philippe of his dirty clothes, bringing him night clothes and several blankets. They fussed over him, making sure he was clean and fed, and Philippe could do nothing but let them, basking in the comfort of his family. And surrounded by them piled nearly atop each other, his two sisters on one side and Raoul on his other, on his and Raoul's shared bed, he unwillingly began his story. He would find no rest with their inquiries and knew they deserved to know what had happened.

Shaking his head sadly, he began, "I arrived at Paris mid-afternoon on the second day as planned, but the news that we had somehow retained that property had been incorrect." He didn't go into the fact that he'd been misled by several individuals and nearly publicly humiliated by someone he had once thought to be a close associate. They didn't need to know that.

"By evening, I was returning when the weather worsened." He was surprised Raoul didn't give him a pointed look for being correct about it raining. All Raoul did was look at him with a mixture of relief and anxiety. He wondered if his brother could tell that something was wrong despite the fact that he had returned. "I was going to keep going but our dear horse," he grinned to his sisters, trying to keep his story light while he could. They giggled. "simply refused to cooperate. So, dismounting, I took shelter in the only building I could, an abandoned opera house."

"An opera house?" the elder sister repeated, struggling to figure why that would be significant. When her eyes fell upon his ruined shirt, she gasped, "The one that's cursed?"

Philippe nodded gravely, and his siblings moved closer to him as though to protect him. It would have been amusing if he wasn't so filled with anguish regarding the rest of the story.

"As I entered, I witnessed the most remarkable and frightening event." His siblings held their breath in unison, and Philippe could almost believe this were indeed simply a bedtime story and not some cruel recitation of his past. "The uniform of a steward appeared. No man within it, but it walked as though there were. It bid me to follow him."

"You didn't," the younger sister whispered.

"I could see no other option." Philippe admitted, "The doors had shut behind me. So, I followed and he led me to what must have been the dormitories for the residents of the opera house. He entered a room and upon my own entry I could not find him. However, the candles began to light one by one, revealing on a long table an abundance of food and upon a chair, a blanket. I ate my full and warmed myself by the fireplace." Philippe hesitated at this point, "And when the storm outside lessened, I grabbed our horse and moved to leave. But as I reached the gate, it closed, trapping me within its walls, and a creature unlike I've ever seen came barreling towards me. It was the ghost. A wretched spectre whose limbs are akin to smoke-like tentacles and at times I could see gnarled limbs or decaying bones." So lost in memory, he didn't realize that he was frightening his sisters. "It had no true face, only a series of macabre frozen expressions of fear and disgust, faces that ranged from children to men and women.

"They must have been the faces of the people it had consumed." Philippe looked towards the pile of clothes he'd removed, eyes unfocused as he remembered how they had gotten so filthy. "And he imprisoned me, brought me down into the bowels of the opera house, so far down that I wondered if we had not descended into hell itself. And I stayed there in the darkness." Cold and absolutely dark. He'd only known sky from ground because of the stone floor.

Coming out of his daze, he glanced at his sisters to see their horrified expressions. He rushed the ending, "He spoke to me only once and it was while he was gone did I manage to lose myself within the tunnels and by the grace of God himself find a way out.

"I rushed home as soon as I could," he concluded and smiled at them encouragingly, "I knew that I could not let you worry too much."

He wasn't certain that his sisters believed his tale. They stared at him nearly disbelieving though still just as relieved, but he'd never once told them falsities under the guise of an explanation, so there was no need to doubt him. However, he knew that it was much to comprehend so late in the evening. He had experienced it himself, and he had moments of doubt that such an event could occur. They would have more questions in the morning once it had all been digested.

"Oh, Philippe," his sisters hugged him tightly. The eldest one spoke for them, "We're relieved you are all right. You had poor Raoul here in such a fit."

He glanced over. Raoul had been too silent during his story. His sisters had gasped and h'md at the right moments, but his brother had simply held on to him. Now, he stared at the blankets, an expression of troubled contemplation upon his face.

"He shall recover," Philippe assured his sisters. "Now, off to bed," he gently ordered. He should have refused to tell them what had happened until morning, but it was too late now. "I'll still be here in the morning."

They gave him a final lingering hug before retiring to the other bed that they shared, and even through the excitement of his arrival and the tale they were still hesitant to believe, they fell asleep quickly.

Through it all, Raoul remained at his side, disconcertingly silent.

"Brother?" Philippe whispered, wondering if he had fallen asleep as well. However, the tight grasp of his arm told him otherwise. He tried again when he received no response, "Raoul?"

"You're lying," Raoul replied just as softly, confused. He frowned to himself. "Why are you lying?"

It was just as Philippe had feared. He and Raoul spent entirely too much time together if his brother knew when he lied. "It's nothing. Let's go to sleep as well."

He moved to a more comfortable position and waited for Raoul to do the same. When he didn't, Philippe sighed. "I'll tell you in the morning."

Raoul shook his head stubbornly.

"I am exhausted, Raoul. Can this not wait?" Philippe was pleased to see the stiff set of his shoulders lessen, and Raoul looked upon him with something like compassion before he shook his head again.

"It cannot, dear brother," Raoul was firm in his resolve, and Philippe knew that he believed his story completely despite its fantastical elements. "For if this ghost is as real as you described, then what prevents it from coming back to take you away?"

Philippe swallowed with some difficulty. That was a concern that Philippe actually shared, but it was not himself for whom he feared.

"Please," Raoul pleaded, his eyes imploring him as well.

"Do not ask this of me."

"I worry for you," Raoul stated as though that were enough of an argument. He asked again, "Please."

Glancing over at his sisters' bed, Philippe was relieved to see that they were still asleep. He turn to lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, certain he wouldn't be able to stand to meet his brother's eyes.

"As I was leaving the opera house, I noticed that to the side, there were rose bushes and remembering your request, I went to retrieve one. You see, I had not been able to return with either jewelry or dresses, but perhaps, I could at least return with a rose." He closed his eyes. Raoul would blame himself, he knew that, but for the moment, Philippe could offer him no comfort. He needed to finish his account. "It was then that the ghost revealed himself and began to drag me back into the opera house, saying that for all his hospitality, I had repaid him by stealing his most prized possession. I was to be his prisoner forever."

However, when he heard Raoul sniffle, he pushed himself up to lean against the head rest, and true enough, Raoul had unshed tears in his eyes.

"I was the cause of your suffering," he whispered to himself.

"Raoul," Philippe gathered him close, "No. You weren't."

"If you hadn't tried to get a rose…" Raoul's sentence was broken by a shaky intake of breath.

Forcing Raoul to look at him, Philippe swore, "You were not the cause of what had happened."

Still disbelieving, Raoul settled back against Philippe simply not voicing the contrary. He asked instead, "How did you escape?"

Philippe stared straight ahead. He'd begged and pleaded to return to his family. However, the ghost had been unimpressed. It was only until he explained about the rose, about Raoul's request did the beast even begin to consider releasing him. "I told him it had been a gift to a most loving and deserving little brother."

"And he released you?"

"Yes, he released me," Philippe hoped that the doubt evident in Raoul's voice wasn't strong enough to compel him to ask him more questions. He hoped that he'd spoken enough, revealed enough of the truth so that it could no longer be considered a lie.

The agreement he'd made, he had no intention of following through. In fact, he was planning to leave France with his siblings come morning.

"You're keeping something from me again," Raoul said, pulling away to look Philippe in the eyes. "Tell me."

He tried to resist, but under that guileless expression, Philippe reluctantly said, "Hearing about you, he promised my freedom if _I_ promised to send you in my place." He quickly explained, "We're leaving this place come morning, Raoul. We needn't ever think of Paris or of ghosts ever again."

"But you _promised_, Philippe." Raoul looked at him, completely scandalized that his older brother would break his word, and just this once, Philippe wished he could understand that there were some lies that were beneficial, not just beneficial but _necessary_.

"It was not my promise to make," he stated firmly. "I will _not_ let you go to that place, to that monster. I will _not _see you die at the hands of some hideous creature for my sake."

Raoul actually was taken aback by his vehemence. He looked at Philippe sadly. His brother did look tired, dark bruising beneath his eyes, a rather haunted expression and an air of fatigue. Raoul sighed. "I think you are correct. You look horrid," he teased and this time, it was him who kissed his brother on the forehead. "This conversation can wait until tomorrow."

Philippe gave his own small smile of relief. There would be no time to talk about it tomorrow. They would be leaving. "Good. Things will seem clearer in the morning."

o.o.o

Philippe was woken by someone shaking his shoulder roughly. He noted groggily that the sun had yet to rise, then flinched backwards when his sister spoke too loudly.

"Philippe. Wake already. You must read this." A paper was thrust into his hands and it took a second for the words to come into focus.

_Dearest brother and sisters,_

_By the time you read, I will already have taken Philippe and be on my way to Paris. I am sorry to have taken him with me for he must already hate the place, but I had no other choice._

_Brother, do not worry for me and although you will want to follow, I strongly suggest against it. Since our sisters need you, it is imperative that you do not do anything rash. Even should you try to follow, it will be too late._

_I do this to protect you three. I will miss you all dearly._

_With all my love,  
Raoul_

"What has he gone to do?" His sister asked.

Philippe couldn't voice his answer.

o.o.o

o.o.o.o

End chapter 01

A/N: Don't forget to R/R (Read and Review)!  
Chapter Review: Honestly, I went through several versions of this fic because for some reason, although it should be obvious, I couldn't figure out who should play who.

However, here it is, and I've had to chop it into pieces just to make deadlines. It can't rightly be called a cliffhanger when you already know what's going to happen.


	2. prisoner's accomodations

Fandom: Phantom of the Opera & Beauty and the Beast  
Disclaimer: Please don't sue. I don't own *insert fandom name from above*... All I own is an overactive imagination.  
Summary: POTO take on Beauty and the Beast. So, it's technically not a crossover, just a different telling of the fairy tale, a phantom-ized fairy tale.  
Warning(s): slash   
Pairing(s): Erik/Raoul  
Word Count: 4,058

A/N: New update schedule: every other week. I also can't seem to write more than a few thousand words in a chapter anymore. D:  
Story note: This is apparently one of those slower moving fics.

o.o.o.o

La Belle et la Bete  
By: Lucifer Rosemaunt

Chapter 02 – Prisoner's Accommodations

o.o.o.o

Under any other circumstance, the trip to Paris might have been pleasant. The weather was mild, the previous storm having done enough damage already to have moved on. Nary a cloud could be seen. Raoul may have shivered from the coolness of a morning that was still mostly night, but when the sun finally rose, he warmed by increments. Despite the sun though, a certain measure of cold persisted, refusing to fully release him from its grasp. His hands were near numb; they shook as he held the reins. His body was stiff, legs too tense and in less than half a day, he was sore from riding. He wondered if some illness had befallen him but quickly dismissed the idea. He was in good health, perhaps a little sick with grief and chilled from despair, but healthy.

To avoid thinking about the fate that awaited him in Paris, he preoccupied himself with thoughts of his family. He could imagine how worried they would be upon discovering his absence. His sisters would mourn his absence and Philippe would be devastated; he would think, rather erroneously, that Raoul's departure could have been prevented.

If Raoul could change one aspect about the necessity of his decision, it would not be to wish someone else to go in his stead; it would be to somehow erase the pain he was causing his family. The letter was meant to reassure them that he was doing what was best for them all. After all the years that they had doted and coddled him, he would finally be the one to protect them.

Still, he avoided all forms of civilization. Memories of his family were difficult enough, but the mere possibility of _seeing_ a family together, of seeing someone that might remind him of his brother or sisters made him ache from his very core. It would be like having to leave them all over again, and he simply wasn't strong enough to do that more than once.

Even though he knew with absolute certainty that he was making the correct decision, the thought in itself provided little comfort. The only comfort he did have was the steady amble of his horse, Philippe. It was selfish, he knew, to take the last thing his family truly owned, but he'd had to be certain that his brother would not be able to catch him so quickly. It also helped to know that in some little way, he was not going to do this alone. After all, he only had to look upon the road, the destination that seemed as far as it was close, before he trembled in fear. At times, he would wish he was already facing his doom at the opera house, for surely the ghost wanted to consume him like all the others; then moments later, he would wish he was close enough to the inn that his brother would be able to catch up and convince him that they _would_ be able to outrun a ghost.

There was no way to outrun a ghost. But there was a way to appease him.

So, Raoul pressed onward manically, finding it impossible to rest. If he stopped, he didn't know if he would be able to find the strength to continue this journey. As though understanding this, Philippe graciously acceded to his need to travel through the night, keeping up with the pace Raoul set. He took some pity on him and walked for much of the journey as night fell. It gave him a chance to work out the knots in his muscles and tension in his limbs.

They paused only a few times when it was necessary and in those moments of stillness while Philippe drank water or ate, Raoul would be pacing, or stroking Philippe's mane, whispering words of encouragement and apology. Sympathetic to his internal struggle, Philippe would snort and nudge him fondly with his muzzle, and Raoul liked to believe he was being forgiven for pushing them so hard.

They reached Paris in what was certain to be record time, and despite the early hour, Raoul easily found someone to direct him to the opera house. The directions had been given along with a heavy warning against going. When Raoul insisted he had no other choice but to go, the stranger paused and looked at him oddly. He wondered what a sight he must present: dirty from travel and barely functioning on a mixture of anxiety and determination. The man's scrutiny must have come to the only reasonable answer, crazy in appearance and action, for he had left quickly.

Raoul himself didn't bother to dally either. He tried to mentally prepare himself for this meeting, _had been_ trying the entire journey. The only thing he could think to do was take in everything his senses perceived, trying to find beauty in the architecture, in the songbirds' melodies, in the evidence of a new day. He let it all wash over him certain in his belief that this was the last morning he would ever see. It was the only thing left to do.

He immediately knew he was heading in the right direction when he rode into a sort of darkness that had nothing to do with the early morning. It hung about the shops and grew ever deeper towards what had to be the opera house. From a distance, no definite form of the building was truly visible through the shadows, making it seem more formidable as it loomed over him on his approach.

The streets were abandoned. The silence that encompassed the area seemed to come from the building itself, such an incongruous malady with a structure that should resonate with the many operas that had been performed within its walls. Yet, it was a stillness that was able to communicate rather clearly: Beware. Danger ahead.

Raoul was encouraged by the fact that Philippe did not seem extremely agitated. In fact, his horse sedately made his way towards the main entrance, seemingly familiar with the way, which Raoul realized he was. Patting him on his neck, Raoul whispered another apology for taking him back here.

The building looked menacing up close. Despite the fact that he could see no broken window or cracked statue, he could not help but feel this place looked dilapidated. There was not even any indication of edges worn down by the elements, as though it had been frozen in time while the world moved on around it. The only characteristic that even hinted at the long years the building had been in disuse was the fact it was overrun with greenery.

Philippe neighed loudly and Raoul realized that they had long since stopped moving. Taking in an unsteady breath, he dismounted and tied the reins loosely at the entrance.

"Thank you." Raoul stroked Philippe's head. "Maybe," he grinned weakly, "maybe the ghost will let me go and we can return home." After a moment, he impulsively pressed his lips to the bridge of Philippe's nose. "Good-bye." He turned and quickly strode to the door, refusing to look behind him. His hand was poised in the air to knock when the door swung open silently. With thoughts of his family's safety, he entered.

Several steps into the building, he stopped and standing stock-still with his eyes squeezed shut, he braced himself for pain. Surely, the ghost had heard him approaching and this was to be the end of not only his journey but his life. But, nothing happened. He opened his eyes hesitantly and saw that he was completely alone. It was actually brighter inside the building than it had been outside, though not by much. Too many shadows lingered at the edges of the room and though he was uneasy, Raoul couldn't help but be taken aback by the grandeur of the foyer.

His eyes widened and he gasped. The sound echoed softly in the cavernous room. Pillars climbed to the ceiling up past a second floor. Not even thinking about it, he walked further into the opera house, craning his neck to look up. Even his footsteps echoed. After having been forced to share a room for so long, Raoul had nearly forgotten what it felt like to take up so little space in a room, to feel so small. There was little he could see of the ornamentation but as he approached one of the alcoves the hall separated into, he nearly screamed in fright when a demon-like creature peered at him through the darkness. Once he realized that the creature was not moving and was certain the statue was indeed just that, he allowed himself to wonder if those who had furnished the building had somehow known that it would be the perfect denizen to this particular opera house.

From the recesses of his mind, he could faintly recall having once been to an opera. It hadn't been performed here, but it was not a hardship to imagine what this building must have looked like before it had fallen to disuse. Dust covered almost every meter of the place; even the sun had difficulty shining through the large expanse of windows. But as Raoul's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out how the gold trimmings in the decoration though dim, defiantly added color and reflected the meager candlelight.

Raoul smiled faintly, imagining the numerous individuals who must have walked through this very hall, shoulders bumping against each other from the sheer number of them, the sound of their combined voices filling up the room with life and laughter. Oh, how they must have been just as stunned as he was with such opulence. Having experienced so much, they would have been able to better appreciate the workmanship and intricate details that it was too dark to see or Raoul now, certainly too uncivilized to be able to notice.

Briefly forgetting about his fears, he took simple pleasure in imagining what must have been, not realizing that he was being watched the entire time. From the shadows in the room, the occupants of the opera house all looked at him hopefully. This may be their chance of freedom, freedom from the curse and from the tyranny of the ghost whose success they now so depended upon.

One more watched him, but not within the room. From deep below the opera house, a wretched form of limbs and vapors hunched over a small magical mirror watching the youth's timid movements and open admiration of what he saw. It wasn't difficult to see he was frightened, and the creature wondered who this boy was that he managed to forget anxiety in favour of surveying the room, that he could bear to smile so contentedly in the face of such danger.

That would have to be discovered in time. It pleased him that the man had kept his word not only in sending his brother, but in the description he'd given. Loving? The creature had long since given up hope for the curse to be broken, but the boy was certainly love_ly_. The mirror faded to darkness when a tendril of what had once been a finger reached to touch the surface of the mirror and caress the boy's image.

Perhaps there was reason to hope once more.

Raoul shivered and turned about quickly, certain that he had heard someone whispering. He turned again before approaching the staircase; the sound had come from that direction. Whenever he tried to concentrate though, he could near nothing but his own ragged breathing.

Swallowing with some difficulty, he summoned the courage to call out.

"Hello?"

Only his voice echoed a responding 'hello' as though to punctuate the fact that he was indeed alone. Barring ghosts. He took an involuntary step towards the door. It was then that he heard footsteps approaching him. He turned his head to follow the sound. Whoever it was was in no apparent rush to reach him, and Raoul had to wait long moments tensely staring into the shadows. Shoes were the first thing Raoul saw, and when the rest came into view, he stumbled backwards, tripping over his own feet before landing on his rear.

Just as Philippe had described, a suit walked towards him from across the hall. In his haste, Raoul didn't have the presence of mind to stand up. Instead, he stared at the steward, scrambling backwards on the floor. He backed up directly into the bottom step of the grand staircase and stopped. It looked as though someone were indeed wearing it, but there was no head, were no hands, and he was certain no feet even though there were shoes.

A yell threatened to come loose from his throat as it stopped directly in front of him. An arm reached out towards him and he flinched backwards, raising his arms in front of him. When he felt nothing happen, he peered through the space between his forearms to see the sleeve of the jacket had stopped quite a distance away. His heart racing, he felt almost lightheaded. The arm bent at the elbow and Raoul realized it was motioning him to follow.

It waited there patiently while Raoul tried to calm himself. He told himself he shouldn't be so frightened at every single thing that appeared, especially when he had expected this to occur. Even his imaginings of the invisible steward had been rather indistinct though. He glanced towards the door, wondering if he could make it if he ran before quickly chiding himself. His brother hadn't been so frightened. At the thought of his family, Raoul clenched his hands into fists and pushed himself up onto still unsteady legs.

He would not run. He had come here of his own accord and he would not shirk the duty he had taken on for his family. Nodding dumbly, Raoul waited for the steward to lead the way.

They walked through numerous hallways that all looked the same. Only a few candles were ever lit, the overall effect similar to a perpetual dusk. Reddish hues tinged everything, from wall to carpet; the darkness acted as the palette upon which red became carmine became the deep violet of night. The shadows danced, flickering candles intimate partners already well-versed in the intricate twist, bend, and twirl of the choreography.

There was not much to view besides the candelabra and the blank hallways; so, Raoul found his gaze drawn back to the steward. He couldn't suppress the fear he felt at having visible proof that such a creature could exist. Was it some magic that kept the clothes afloat or was there an actual being he simply could not perceive? Whichever it was, he only knew that the longer he looked, the less frightening it became. Perhaps if given the opportunity, he could look upon them with no fear at all.

The steward stopped in front of a door, which opened without him even moving his arm. Raoul took a deep breath; his knees felt as though they would buckle. This was it. He would finally meet the ghost. The steward remained outside, and Raoul realized that he wasn't going to enter at all. Suddenly, he had the absurd wish that the steward would not leave him.

He hesitated only a bit longer before walking in. He paused once inside, again confused. It was an empty bedroom. He glanced at the steward, expecting some sort of explanation. How, when the creature had no mouth to speak from, Raoul was uncertain, but he stared expectantly nonetheless. It was exhausting expecting the worse, bracing himself, and having nothing occur. The steward pointed at him before indicating the room.

It took a while, but Raoul realized what he was trying to say. "Oh" was the only response he could think to say. This was to be his bedroom. He didn't quite know what to make of that; perhaps the ghost was trying to make him believe he was safe before striking or, and Raoul was beginning to hope this may be true, his assumptions on what would occur here were incorrect. Shaking his head slightly to clear his thoughts, he turned his attention back at the steward. Looking at where the man's head should have been, Raoul straightened and said, "Thank you."

The steward bowed slightly before leaving; the door closed as he left, shutting with a finality that seemed to drain whatever was left of Raoul's resolve and energy. Before his legs could finally give way beneath him, Raoul threw himself upon the bed, clutching the blanket to his chest. The tears came unbidden but expected. He was surprised that he had managed the entire trip without breaking down. Here in what was to be his prison for however short or long a period he would have left to live, Raoul let grief wrack his body in the form of sobs and pitiful hiccups.

o.o.o

Raoul awoke late into the evening not remembering when he'd fallen asleep in the first place. He looked across the room, expecting to see the bed his sisters shared before remembering where he was. There was no way he could stop the ache that bloomed in his chest, but he endeavored to push it aside. Their absence was quite pronounced in a room that was suddenly too big though.

He chided himself once again for his weakness. He simply didn't believe he was strong enough not to hurt at the mere thought of them. Still, each day he lived here was a day that they were safe from the ghost. So, he looked for something to distract him, anything.

A perusal of the room served him well enough. It was a little smaller than the room at the inn; however the bed was bigger than the one he'd shared with his brother. Against one wall there was a full length mirror. An armoire was nestled in the corner and beside it, a boudoir. He found it odd to have a single room when he remembered Philippe talking about dormitories. He guessed the room was probably reserved for someone important like a prima donna or perhaps the instructors.

Unlike the rest of the opera house, this room was clean. There was no dust on the furniture and no cobwebs in the corners of the room. He couldn't remember if it had been like that when he'd first entered. Nevertheless, the meaning of it unsettled him despite supporting his earlier thought. He was expected to stay for some duration. He wasn't quite certain whether to be pleased that the ghost would not consume him so quickly or to fear what that interim entailed.

On a side table, a new set of clothing awaited him. Cautiously, he picked up the trousers and marveled at the material. It made him painfully aware of how much his own clothes had gone into disrepair, threadbare and ill-fitting since he was still growing. He'd even put on his nicest suit to come here; one that had been part of his old life. He hadn't brought anything else with him, not having expected on being able to use them.

His first impulse was to refuse the clothing but thought against it. There was no way to know how long he would be a prisoner and if Philippe's story was true, then Raoul might actually be expected to stay here _forever_. He would eventually have to wear new clothes once he grew out of his current ones and just generally accept the kindness of the ghost; that particular thought was incongruous of the image he'd developed en route to the opera house. Kindness and the ghost? It fanned the little flicker of hope that had sparked within him. He tried not to expect too much though.

The first thing he noticed when he donned the new clothing was the fact that they fit as though they'd been tailor made for him. He scanned the room, fearful of the idea of someone actually having taken his measurements while he'd been asleep. He was alone, but he still shuddered at the mere thought.

He stood before the mirror, twisting and turning just to see how he looked. He couldn't remember if his own clothes had ever fit this well. Grinning, he remembered a time when he had watched Philippe dressed in such finery – for some reason, Raoul never thought he was ever able to wear it as elegantly as his brother. It felt like lifetimes ago, but he knew it couldn't have been more than a year. He could still easily conjure up images of his sisters in their gowns and the delicate way they seemed to float as they walked. He smiled sadly, smoothing down nonexistent wrinkles on his new clothes.

Even with the decision made to accept the generosity given to him, Raoul took great care to fold his old clothes and place them reverently into a drawer. He wanted to keep it safe; it was the last remnant of his past life – besides Philippe. A rush of panic filled him as he wondered what had happened to his horse. Now that he was still alive, he hoped that Philippe hadn't run off just yet. He'd made certain not to tie the reins too tightly so that if anything happened, he would be able to run away.

Leaving the room in haste, he only hesitated a moment before deciding he'd come from the left. He ran, guessing at which corners to turn and which to continue straight. When he finally stopped, he was out of breath and completely lost, but wherever he'd arrived, he had gotten there quite quickly.

Raoul turned about in confusion, hoping to spot something that struck him as familiar. The problem was that everything was familiar, from the hallways themselves to the number of candles lit. Everything looked the same.

He was at a loss for what to do next when a trickle of music reached him. Tilting his head towards the sound, he smiled hopefully. Music meant that there was someone else in this building. Maybe the building wasn't as empty as he'd first believed.

Following the sound led him to a set of double doors. Opening them a barest of cracks, the music and singing forcefully streamed out. He walked into a large auditorium, midway through the empty theatre. Eagerly, he turned towards the stage expecting to see others and could only stare, mouth ajar.

There were indeed performers on stage. Dancers twirled about and singers in elaborate costumes moved to the fore of the stage, jewelry dangling from wrists making exaggerated gestures towards the ceiling and one in particular was holding – Raoul squinted to see – a decapitated head. He grimaced and if it weren't so obvious that the head was false, Raoul would have been worried.

It was a spectacular performance, a parade of such richness of color and action that Raoul was rooted to his spot, struggling to take it all in. And, while he could hear the orchestra, hear the singers, even hear the rustling of the costumes in the relative dead silence of the auditorium, not a single body filling those clothes could be seen. He was even able to catch a glimpse of the outfit of a stage hand, as it somehow, without having visible limbs, managed to tug a curtain into place.

He tore his gaze away, and as disturbing as the sight was, Raoul was simply relieved to note once again that they performed to no audience. He didn't know how well he would have reacted to an entire theatre full of invisible patrons.

Despite his desire to continue his search for Philippe and to leave before he somehow disturbed the performance, he found his eyes drawn to the stage. It truly was mesmerizing: the way the colorful clothing pirouetted and leapt across the stage, how the settings changed and props moved, and it took a moment but Raoul realized that he could easily follow who was singing. It was magnificent. He was almost certain their voices would be able to reach the heavens; he could almost soar along with it. The music thrummed through him and his heart had already changed its rhythm simply to match the music.

"It is the Saturday evening performance." A rasping voice startled him.

o.o.o

o.o.o.o

End chapter 02

A/N: Don't forget to R/R (Read and Review)!  
Chapter Review: Third person with mostly (not completely) a Raoul POV; so, many of those sentences that seem opinionated are colored by Raoul's own perceptions. I thought I might just mention that since Raoul doesn't have that great of an opinion of himself and too high an opinion of imagined people. Oh, and apparently, I think Raoul's pretty young in this one. Mid to late teens?

Is Raoul wrong in his belief that the ghost will consume him? Just to whom are the people performing? And has the ghost finally revealed himself?


	3. the beast

Fandom: Phantom of the Opera & Beauty and the Beast  
Disclaimer: Please don't sue. I don't own *insert fandom name from above*... All I own is an overactive imagination.  
Summary: POTO take on Beauty and the Beast. So, it's technically not a crossover, just a different telling of the fairy tale.  
Warning(s): slash  
Pairing(s): Erik/Raoul  
Word Count: 1,726

A/N: I've decided that this story is evil. Fine. It's not that evil, but it's giving me enough problems for me to currently dislike it. D: I'm out of practice and I know it shows (this is the last time I'll complain about that because it's my fault I am).  
Story note: We kind of backtrack so try not to get too lost. I got lost a little myself expecting it to be something more, but this does have a lot of key points. It's just not one of those posts that will satisfy you.

o.o.o.o

La Belle et La Bete  
By: Lucifer Rosemaunt

Chapter 03 – The Beast

o.o.o.o

Time had long since lost its meaning to the residents of the opera house. The flurry of pre-show preparations and the still of off days had been lost in the hazy amalgam of "what used to be." No one changed here. Nothing happened that hadn't happened before. Each person had been slotted into an intricate clockwork, one that had been woven by the magic of a fairy so long ago. Their motions, their very lives followed the circling trajectory of the clock's arms, each minute measured, every hour planned.

Every now and then, an outsider would venture into their isolated world and only then would the cadence of their lives change. Few freedoms would be returned to them, but it was merely yet another torment. It drew all their expectations upon that single person despite themselves, hoping against all they knew and experienced that he or she would finally deliver them from their curse, only to have all those hopes decidedly crushed beneath the pounding heels of their harried footfalls, echoing through empty hallways as they fled from the terrors that were kept within the Opera Populaire's walls.

Or at least, one particular terror and the opera house's only hope for ever lifting the curse, the wraith-like creature that was less ghost than he was a pastiche of human fear and disgust.

In the beginning, there had been more visitors: people who had not realized the tragedy that had befallen the opera house, the few brave enough to try and solve its mysteries, and even those that only sought to test their courage. There had been so many that even the creature had believed that the curse would be easily broken; it had not been inconceivable to find one from that multitude. Yet, the time between visits had continued to stretch from days to weeks and weeks to years. Still, they all ran, and desperation simply became another marked increment, another passing second in their lives as natural to them as breathing.

The harder the creature had tried; the faster people had fled, their horror and fear of him leaving an indelible mark on his features, a further mockery and reminder of his failures – as though having a semi-corporeal form wasn't a reminder enough. The creature could to this day still vividly see their faces, their expressions emblazoned in his mind as well as his body.

The fairy had taken all aspects of who he was that might have redeemed him in the eyes of others. It was almost as though the woman had wanted him to fail, that despite her words that the curse could be lifted, she had wanted to him to suffer eternally. But, while he lamented the loss of his body, its ever-changing measure of solidity, it was the loss of his talent and an outlet for his passion that had truly devastated him – no longer able to sing, to draw, to compose. He had been certain he would lose his mind along with his body with nothing to distract him, but what little sanity he had remained as talent and passion were reduced to mere anger. He'd had no choice but to accept his new existence of inertia, having neither life nor death to look forward to.

With the arrival of this youth, the opera house had been given a reprieve from the tedium of their current existences once more. Unlike the ghost, the others' hopes were not so easily extinguished. They watched his every movement even as they were forced into their routines. From his very arrival, the boy had been different from the others. He had not only willingly entered the opera house but had agreed to remain here. They knew little of what a permanent resident in the opera house would mean for their lives, but they eagerly awaited its outcome. They could do nothing else but place their hope in him.

Even the creature, who had become disinterested in all others barring the occasional fright, was inevitably drawn to the boy. Hearing the desperation in the voice of his brother had not swayed him the slightest from deciding to keep the thief within his dungeons to suffer as they all did. Hearing of the plight that had befallen him, of the treachery he'd faced, of people that had waited for his return did nothing but firm his resolve. It was the mere oddity of hearing a young man choose from all the things in the world a single rose to be retrieved and the pained reluctance in the man's expression as he revealed that fact that had made him give such a concession.

For the first time since he'd been reduced to such a pitiful creature to be caged in what he had once called his domain, the creature's world had expanded for one more. If anyone were to remain the duration of his life in their prison it would be the boy, an oddity among oddities.

It was then that the stroke of the secondhand suddenly had meaning once more. The long since ignored sound of the clocks chiming the hour seemed to echo ever more forcefully through the desolate halls. Each rise and fall of the sun had been diligently noted until his arrival.

Even after the blond arrived, the creature felt each moment stumble upon the next, bringing with it the prospect of something new and – he was time and again drawn to the only safe connection with the outside world, the mirror – something precious. Yet, he denied himself the hope that lingered in the fringes of his thoughts and instead thought of new days brought about by such innocence and vitality. If he could not break the curse, he would somehow ease the passage of time as best he could.

As per usual, he kept away. He preferred to stave off the inevitable shrieks of horror at seeing him, even more so with this one. Gazing down at his hands, limbs, his curse, the creature wondered if he'd be able to touch him without harm. His limbs were never solid enough to touch anything that could possibly affect the monotony of his days and the visitors that he _had _touched suffered for it, his hands becoming merely tools that were made for suffering.

As he continued to watch though, the ghost felt a strange stirring within him upon seeing the blond cry, and despite not knowing what he planned to do, he left his home intent on going to him. Though the journey short, when he arrived, the youth had already tired himself. In slumber, his face was untroubled and the creature was compelled to move nearer. His eyes were drawn to the gentle curve of his cheek, the steady breaths expelled from his slightly parted lips, and the tangle of blond hair nearly covering his face.

The ghost stayed, just watching him until he found himself nearly brushing back those blond strands. He left hastily, but not before ordering the others to ensure that their guest had the best of everything he would need for the duration of his stay. Yet, even buried beneath the opera house, the first thing the creature did was further watch him through the mirror despite his own self-chastisement at showing such interest. It was a wholly unfamiliar sensation to be this involved.

Dismissing those thoughts, he watched as the blond woke and admired his new clothes. He could not have convinced himself to stop when he saw the grin that adorned his handsome features. That simple expression completely erased the despair that had been so clear upon his face when he awoke and realized where he was.

The distance between them was an annoyance; yet, at the same time, the creature wanted to savour such guileless acts while he was still able to. Upon seeing him become lost within his hallways, the creature wondered where the boy so quickly needed to run. Although the answer was obvious and expected, he still felt the undeniable sting of disappointment as he placed the enchanted mirror down in order to prevent the blond from leaving the opera house.

However, the rising anger seemed to vanish immediately when the creature finally found him in the theatre. Enthralled with him further, he was trapped in the shadows, not daring a single movement lest he distract the blond from his perusal of the theatre. Everything in the creature was certain of one thing; he simply had to learn more about this boy who looked with such awe at the horrible performance currently on stage. He needed to speak with someone who took simple pleasures from what the ghost only considered commonplace.

The music had lost its thrill to him, their voices, their dancing. He could see no beauty, only their mistakes, the flaws inherent in the melodies and movements themselves. After so long, it was nothing but repetitive tripe that he was unable to escape no matter where he went in the opera house or on the grounds; it followed him. And now, so close to their performance, it caused him physical pain.

It was their punishment to perform it weekly as much as it was his to be forced to listen. But, there wasn't just senseless discomfort now. From the fringes of his mind, he felt annoyance. It took him long moments before realizing why: because the songs, their voices _could _be more. They could… Although he could not fully grasp the end of that thought, the feeling remained that perhaps discontentment was more apropos than simple anger.

He had already forgotten why operas existed. If not for the awe of this boy, he probably would not have remembered that pleasure could be derived from them at all. So, despite the fact that it took much effort and gave him residual pain in what was left of his throat, he spoke.

"It is the Saturday evening performance." He nearly flinched at the sound of his own voice. There had yet to be a time which required him to speak as such. The last words he had spoken had been shouts where his anger overpowered any indication of pain, or what pain he felt simply augmented his anger. To try and speak normally – odd to begin with – sounded worse to his ears, remembering the distant memory of what it had once been.

o.o.o

o.o.o.o

End chapter 03

A/N: Don't forget to R/R (Read and Review)!  
Chapter Review: I had to shorten this chapter or else it would have probably taken another few weeks just in order to update it. I'm trying, you guys. I really am, but I know this is just an evil tease. DX They don't even talk to each other, but it is important for plot, right?


	4. an introduction

Fandom: Phantom of the Opera & Beauty and the Beast  
Disclaimer: Please don't sue. I don't own *insert fandom name from above*... All I own is an overactive imagination.  
Summary: POTO take on Beauty and the Beast. So, it's technically not a crossover, just a different telling of the fairy tale.  
Warning(s): slash  
Pairing(s): Erik/Raoul  
Word Count: 2,646

A/N: This is a chapter update. ;3 (it's so unfamiliar, I thought I'd remind you guys what it was.) Less time to edit, so please forgive my faults.  
Story note: Some actual forward motion to this story? Unheard of!

o.o.o.o

La Belle et la Bete  
By: Lucifer Rosemaunt

Chapter 04 – an introduction

o.o.o.o

Raoul jerked away from the unexpected noise, head immediately turning towards the source of discordance that had somehow resolved itself into words. In his haste, he stumbled against a seat, the ornate wood digging into his side. The pain was easily ignored though as he peered into the darkness of the area behind him. There was no one and no _thing_ there he could see, but that only drove him further into unease. One lesson he had certainly learned from his short internment in the opera house was that the lack of visual evidence did not preclude existence.

"H-hello?" The tremble in his voice reflected the nearly noticeable shaking of his arms as he braced himself against the seat back. He tried to still both when the only sounds he continued to hear were the orchestra and prima donna singing to the back seats of the empty auditorium.

Yet, he could not pretend he had not heard the words. _'It is the Saturday evening performance.' _They evoked all too distant memories of leisurely spent weekends, a time when there had been stark disparity between weekend and weekday before it became the daily struggle to stay fed, clothed, and sheltered. He was reminded of the one life he, _his family_ had already lost, and he just now realized that he would lose yet another life – difficult as it had been, at least he had been with his family. But just like the physical ache, the emotional one when he thought of his family was easily subsumed by the fear and uncertainty he faced now.

The ghost watched him from the shadows, lost in his own scrutiny as the boy peered into the darkness to vainly search for him. Blond hair was neatly pulled back from his face – he'd seen the tattered ribbon that held it, such a contrast to the ensemble that had been provided. The anger he should have felt towards such negligence and incompetency to his commands never came. The creature was too engrossed by the few strands of hair that had fallen free from said tie by his guest's sudden movement. He once again found himself wanting to close that short distance between them to brush them from his face.

He could hardly remember a time that he had so desperately wanted to touch another being, much less after so short a time – physically harm, perhaps, but never simple contact. Such gentleness had never been shown him. There had never been a single occasion upon which to experience it firsthand and no reason to offer anything but reciprocal injury. He had never known that uncertainty could be overcome by loyalty, fear overcome by awe, and despair overcome by an unguarded appreciation of what the moment brought. Even now, he hardly believed that the young man that stood naught a few meters from him was genuine and the compulsion to touch only grew stronger.

But, he was certain that like with all simple joys, his curse would similarly bar him from the pleasures of an uncomplicated connection with this boy. It wasn't just the curse though. A part of him hidden beneath the ghost, the small core that remembered life as it once had been, knew that even then, the simple act of touching this singularly brilliant spark of life would have been difficult. They were worlds apart. The distance between them now was further than he could deign to cross. It was not the meager aisle that separated them. The very candlelight that shone was its own boundary, for once he left, the fear so evident in the young man's face would be a mere shadow to the terror that would replace it.

Despite knowing all that, he had still been compelled to extend those words, to begin to build some semblance of rapport – perhaps too soon since it was still the first day of his stay. However, he refused to burn that meager bridge before it was given its chance to develop. But if simple words had garnered this reaction, the urge to test and prod this boy in front of him, who had yet to run, who had yet to scream, would have to be stemmed for just a little longer.

An oddity indeed. So unlike the others that he forcibly reminded himself not to hope that he would be the one to break the curse. It was pointless to hope for that, he knew, as pointless as hoping for anything at all.

Raoul had almost convinced himself that he'd only heard a stray voice, perhaps a stagehand, when what he'd assumed to be shadow suddenly moved. It was an unnatural undulation of darkness too apparent to be a figment of his imagination, yet too precise to be the result of a flicker of flame; it betrayed intelligent motion. His breath caught in his throat, heart racing even when his feet refused to do so.

This was wholly different from the steward or the costumes on stage. There was no darkness but that of the opera house when the steward had arrived. There had been clothes, at least a little familiarity despite the frightening nature of its mobility. Raoul looked around desperately, noticing that several candles had gone out. However, it seemed as though the creature that had spoken was shadow himself. And oddly enough, the most frightening thing _was_ its substance.

The creature did not move again, and that little inaction kept Raoul from screaming in fright. It didn't take a leap of logic for him to realize that this was no ordinary ghost. This was _the _opera ghost, the one that his brother had angered and by whom he had been attacked. Raoul did his best to remain calm, or at least suppress his natural inclination to cower at the very creature who had managed to frighten Philippe so. If his brother had not been able to stand up to it, how did Raoul even stand a chance?

But, he forced himself to breathe deeply. This was a different circumstance, and the ghost was not barreling toward him as in Philippe's story. Raoul had come here precisely for this moment, this meeting. As much as he feared what the future might hold for him, he was actually disappointed to find that the ghost was not making a move to harm him. His earlier doubts of the purpose of his stay were once again clouding his judgment.

Through the blood pounding in his ears, he almost missed the ghost's next words.

"What do you think?" Though it remained grating, the voice was quieter, as though it pained him to speak normally; by the sound of it, Raoul had a feeling that it was.

Raoul, desperately trying to avoid displeasing him and paralyzed by fear, stayed perfectly still. Yet, a part of him began to overpower the baseness of his fear. He could not help but feel for the creature, and it took a moment for him to realize why. The ghost was making an effort at polite conversation in spite of the obvious discomfort he felt speaking. His voice – Raoul prided himself in being able to tell much from one's voice – he could not even begin to imagine what emotion was held in such tones. He could barely discern the words. All Raoul could garner from them was pain; pain _for_ the creature who seemed to suffer so, who seemed desperate to communicate but was unable to. And he wanted to respond despite the sudden tightness of his throat.

Seeking to clarify, he barely managed a single syllable, "Of?"

Still muted, the ghost's words struggled to form through the hoarse almost guttural manner of his speech. "The performance. The clothes." Bursts of cringe-worthy wheezes and near barks. "My opera house. Any of it. All of it." Then, the ghost moved forward, making what was supposed meant to be a sweeping gesture encompassing all that Raoul had seen. Instead, it only appeared as though a figure had moved before the candlelight, momentarily casting Raoul into shadow.

The ghost's face stayed hidden, but it didn't matter since Raoul was focused purely on its body. Despite the appearance of wearing clothes, Raoul could, at times, see bones, organs, and decaying flesh. They would morph one into the other throughout his form, a type of heavy vapor that against all reason seemed to hold together to create this volatile configuration of human components. His torso seemed the most substantial as his limbs only formed proper appendages rarely, instead choosing to vanish into an indistinct trail.

The vapors moved, but Raoul realized that it wasn't actual shadows like he'd initially thought. It only seemed like shadow because the creature was in darkness. He noticed that the candle near where the ghost now stood was extinguished in order to keep him in partial shadow, preventing Raoul from seeing his face.

He was both intrigued and horrified by the display. So engrossed in scrutinizing him further, he completely forgot that the ghost had asked him a question.

"Well?" the ghost asked impatiently, and his body shifted to match his mood. His torso quickly shifted from dress coat to rotting flesh hanging precariously from a twisted rib.

Raoul averted his eyes, suddenly feeling nauseous. He took a moment to compose himself, to sincerely contemplate his query. "I appreciate the clothing. They are…" he trailed off, not quite knowing how to thank the creature or if he even could without seeming to do so only to flatter. Rubbing his sweaty palms against the expensive material, he redirected instead, "You shouldn't have." He kept his head bowed, only focusing on the spot where the ghost's feet should be. It was safer; more often than not, Raoul could only see faint outlines – of what? He could not identify. "I've become," he laughed softly to himself, "accustomed to much less than you have offered me."

The ghost looked at his downcast eyes and wanted to believe that it wasn't only out of fear. The quiver in his voice was gone; the only thing left was hesitancy. The self-deprecating tone was so honest that the ghost was momentarily affected. He closed his eyes and for a long moment reveled in the simplicity of having a civil conversation. The faint aftertaste of copper in his throat was well worth the effort to hear words directed at him, to hear words at all that weren't from fear or desperation: no begs of mercy for life, tragic stories, or offers of wealth.

Raoul realized he must have said something right since the ghost seemed to almost solidify, and he was now looking at dress shoes. He glanced up and while the ghost's face and much of his shoulders were still in complete darkness, he saw that the ghost looked almost like a simple man, until he realized that the irregular shifts of the ghost's body had simply slowed and he was suddenly looking at the bone of the ghost's arm.

He looked away again, but his thoughts were becoming less jumbled. His nerves were jumping less at every movement because after a moment's consideration, the ghost _had _given him clothes. He'd given Philippe shelter and a chance to return home to them, and ultimately, he had shown the Chagny's kindness when fate had conspired against them at every turn since their parents' deaths. Raoul could not condone the creature's actions, but he could almost understand them.

The continued silence between them made him uncomfortable though. It made his own inadequacies at proper conversation all the more obvious. He vaguely remembered the lessons he'd learned. He remembered his mother's gentle, but firm voice – so much like his eldest sister, now that he thought about it – as they practiced proper conversation topics, near successful lessons on flattery, and failed attempts at dissembling. All of that had been lost with moving from house to inn, with attempts to learn any skill that could better help his family. He could hardly remember how he'd managed to hold conversations about the weather, about his then peers, or the latest gossip. It held no import to him, but now, without that, he was grasping for anything to say.

The joyful music of the opera behind them seemed to profane such a meeting. So, he looked around and decided to share the very first thought he'd had about the ghost's home, suddenly glad that he now had someone with whom to share it. "I imagine this opera house was once quite beautiful."

After a pause, the ghost prompted, "How can you tell?" He moved closer to Raoul, into what was undoubtedly his personal space. It was obvious this time when the candle extinguished upon his motion.

Instead of moving back though, Raoul, focused on the topic he had chosen, approached him. The ghost actually shrunk back, even as his whole body tensed, prepared to attack, but Raoul only reached for the wall and the candleholders nearby. He distantly noticed the ghost's reaction and filed it away for further consideration later.

"You can try to hide beauty," he replied as he rubbed off the dust that had built upon it so that the gold, though weakly, would shine through. There was simply something about the grandeur of this place, the way it took his breath away. He knew it might only be him who was thusly affected, that to the residents of this place it was naught but commonplace, but he was caught in its spell. "But as long as someone's looking, it can be found."

The wick burst into a clear blue flame before disappearing again. Raoul jerked backwards, eyes blinking to clear the black spots at the unexpected light. His heart was racing again, and he realized belatedly that an opportunity to see the ghost's face had passed. Moving back a safe distance, he looked at the shadows against the wall and could no longer locate him.

The ghost made a hasty retreat from the blond. The memory of his expression, contemplative but so certain, as he said those words lingered in his mind, almost erasing the constant litany of fearful expressions that he usually saw. Hope and innocence was incarnate in this young man. The creature retreated further against the wall, and the faint pressure upon his back grounded him, reminded him just how many layers of despair and consistent disappointment lay upon him. Regardless of the curse and its stipulations, he knew at that moment that he would never allow this singular, young man to leave him.

"What is your name?"

Raoul lifted his head, the voice was further than he'd expected. He wasn't fond of being unable to tell if the ghost moved, and Raoul was almost certain that he _was _still moving. "Raoul." He added, "once Raoul de Chagny but simply Raoul now."

"Raoul." The ghost repeated, the name resonating in his head, in his very being.

And Raoul was taken aback by that single word. He hardly recognized it as his own name; such depth of emotion rang so clear in the ghost's voice that he barely heard the gruff quality. While that glimpse of emotion might have put him more at ease, allowing him to finally hope that he hadn't simply been making desperate rationalizations to ease his own fears, he was mostly just stricken. No one, Raoul vehemently believed, should be able to sound like that, so utterly broken.

He ached, desperate to undo whatever it was that he had said or done to make the ghost sound as such. A name should not be able to tear a person asunder. _His name_ shouldn't be able to tear a person asunder, and before the scope of what was merely a natural reaction for Raoul could even fully develop, he had decided that it was his responsibility to put the ghost back together in whatever manner he could.

o.o.o

o.o.o.o

End chapter 04

A/N: Don't forget to R/R (Read and Review)!  
Chapter Review: I hope you can see the moment where Erik just fell in love. He's in for it now. XD

I also gave Raoul a more active part in this story. I always felt like it was too much of a Stockholm Syndrome type relationship in BatB; hopefully it seems much less so now. (I also had to rewrite the end like a dozen times. I wish that were a hyperbole, but it's the sad truth.)


	5. the first of many misunderstandings

Fandom: Phantom of the Opera & Beauty and the Beast  
Disclaimer: Please don't sue. I don't own *insert fandom name from above*... All I own is an overactive imagination.  
Summary: POTO take on Beauty and the Beast. So, it's technically not a crossover, just a different telling of the fairy tale.  
Warning(s): slash   
Pairing(s): Erik/Raoul  
Word Count: 1,670

A/N: Writing as they are in this story is a little difficult after watching the musical again. Sort of. No, definitely odd.  
Story note: I love them here though: Erik's not as insanely and violently possessive as he normally is… well, not yet. Or at least, he has yet to have the opportunity to be so. And, Raoul's the too innocent, almost naïve sort of character as glimpsed in the book.

o.o.o.o

La Belle et la Bete  
By: Lucifer Rosemaunt

Chapter 05 – the first of many misunderstandings

o.o.o.o

"What…" The word caught in his throat. With his right hand, Raoul clutched the material of the clothing above his heart. "What is your name?" It came out a mere whisper, breathless due to the overwhelming need to apologize for an ill he knew not of.

How could he help this ghost that he had somehow made to suffer so acutely? He hardly knew how to begin, hardly knew anything about the spectre that stood before him now except perhaps that he and all the residents of the opera house were cursed. That much was apparent.

Despite even the thoughts of the ghost that had run rampant on the long journey to Paris, he had only imagined the horrors that awaited him here. He had hardly given a thought to the ghost's origins. Faintly, he could recall some stories of course, ranging from 'there had always been a ghost within the theatre' to 'a suicide of a composer within the walls had been the origin of the curse.' He knew Philippe's tale and other mentions of the horrors of violence from a pitiless and unforgiving monster. His sisters had shared between themselves other tales about the Opera Populaire – they had always avoided speaking of such things around him in some misguided attempt to protect him from fears they believed he ought not to know – but he had always considered them nothing more than hearsay really.

He hadn't thought ghosts could sound so hurt. He hadn't realized they could feel, but knew now _that_ was such an egregious oversight – ghosts were once human. Were they not? The ghost before him _had_ once been human; the shifting forms gave as much indication.

Said creature had paused. The simple question of his name was more confusing than it should be. He _had _a name, a long time ago. One he had rarely used before the curse and _never_ used in this form – the occasion to use it had never arisen. That small dignity had been stripped from him when his body had been taken, when his very self had been destroyed. He was naught else but a creature, a ghost.

"Ghost will suffice." His voice, once again, was too rough to be read, the emotion lost to the discord.

Raoul was forced to adjust his line of sight. The ghost was perhaps even further now than he had been before. Frowning, he released the now wrinkled clothing from his grip, taking a step forward. He protested at such an anonymous moniker, "You must have a name."

He was met with silence and Raoul considered pressing the issue. He could hardly call a person he wanted to help simply 'Ghost.' It was suddenly of utmost importance to know his name. There was power in names that Raoul had never really considered until his own name had been able to draw forth so much from this creature.

He only stopped himself when the idea that perhaps the ghost had died so long ago that he could no longer remember his name crossed his mind. Perhaps there was the chance that there might be a difference between ghosts and cursed ghosts. He wasn't quite certain how it worked, but knew he feared further causing unnecessary discomfort to the creature.

The ghost moved forward far enough into the light that Raoul could at least track where he was once again. Seeing his body was slowly shifting through its forms, Raoul took it to mean he had taken no offense to his curiosity. He was uncertain what the proper protocol of this situation was exactly. He had a name… a title if anything, but what next?

So, he held his tongue, forcing his opinion of the spectre before him to alter. This was not a horrible creature, a villain or malevolent thing. He was a ghost, a man even, who was naught but another vessel in the mercy of a sea of violent emotions and unkind circumstances. He was fairly certain only man can suffer such great ills and still continue existing.

But truly, that brief moment of emotion in the ghost's voice had brought with it a startlingly vivid moment of clarity to the ghost's character – as though the parts that had been torn asunder had been laid bare for Raoul to see. That moment had come and gone so quickly that such clarity was now lost to him, but one thought remained. The ghost's suffering, the depth and intensity was all too reminiscent, and now that he was more composed, he realized it wasn't simply guilt or hurt that physically assailed him, it was the disbelief of familiarity.

Raoul understood the knee-buckling burden that was somehow borne, where one was forced to continue suffering through another day, forced to find solace in what blessings were received even when what had once been, what had been lost and could never be retrieved lingered at the surface of one's thoughts, taunting and unforgiving. He understood despair and failure, knew of not being strong enough to rise above it all and therefore forced to wallow in one's inadequacy.

He had glimpsed that in the ghost before him, and though he knew not the exact details of the ghost's circumstances, he felt that maybe perhaps there was common ground between them, more than he'd originally thought. Even though the man in front of him had gone quite a different direction in his suffering, Raoul could not help but feel a little more for him because, what blessings did this creature have? He had no family to speak of, no future to hope for in his cursed existence.

Before he could even consider what next to say to the ghost, his stomach took the decision away from him by rumbling. He hoped the darkness was deep enough to hide his embarrassment because despite the backdrop of the performance of the opera, he was certain he had been heard. He shifted, trying to subtly wrap his arms around his midsection and take a step backwards. Now that it had been brought to his attention though, he had to admit that he was truly famished and his stomach was going to once again make his hunger known.

The ghost could easily see the attractive way Raoul's cheeks flushed red. And since when had color returned? Much like time, it, too, had been dulled to his senses. His life had taken on the shades of despair, a monochromatic gray saturating every aspect of the opera house, the color of shadows and suppression.

His gaze shifted to the candleholder that Raoul had touched. Gold. Gold like the color of Raoul's hair. The candleholder was still dusty though and beneath that tarnished, more the affects of the curse than of time. It was nothing like the vibrant young man. The ghost was certain nothing could truly compare to him within this opera house or perhaps even beyond it.

This youth, so apart from everything that his world comprised, was proving to be quite a catalyst. Before his arrival, the creature had been certain if anything, the boy would be corrupted by the curse the moment he entered – that was how the pattern had continued for years. All who crossed the curse's threshold onto Opera Populaire grounds would be tainted by the ugliness, their greed, self-importance, and hatred bleeding forth, coming to the surface. None stayed longer than a few hours as though some force repelled them from him almost as much as he was repelled from them.

Yet, all Raoul did was attract him further.

He was quiet long enough that Raoul was forced to clear his throat in a poor attempt to hide the next growl. Without hesitation or even a moment's consideration, the creature offered, "Would you care to join me for dinner?" He had no desire to leave his company. He'd been ultimately correct about his decision: the monotony of what had become his life had been altered. Forcing this youth to stay with him would ease the long years of suffering that lay before of him.

The question sounded less like a request than it did an order, but the ghost was still too far away for such a detail to worry Raoul. He briefly wondered just how much emotion was necessary to break through the barrier of his voice. How much hurt had he caused that he'd even been able to glimpse some emotion?

Smiling self-consciously, he ducked his head. "I…" he was about to agree when he remembered exactly why he'd been in a rush, why he had so easily ignored his hunger when he'd woken. He gasped in remembrance, head snapping up towards the door. "Oh, I was on my way to the main entrance."

The response was immediate.

"Why?" The ghost moved to block the doorway completely, casting Raoul into sudden darkness. He himself had forgotten why he had been compelled out of his home, why he had been forced to chase after him. It made all wayward thoughts snap into place. His prisoner – no, guest was trying to leave. He mentally chastised himself for being so fooled by him. His attempts however, at convincing himself that Raoul was just like the others did very little. He doubted Raoul had intentionally lulled him into a false sense of certainty in his obedience to stay within the opera house; that he could even manage duplicity was near laughable. He just hadn't… the reaction was too typical; he hadn't expected it from one so unique.

Yet despite the disgust he normally felt toward hypocrites who reneged agreements, he merely felt wary. He itched to simply drag Raoul further into the opera house, so far that the blond would forget about the outside world, forget about his family, forget everything but him.

Raoul flinched, realizing that he should probably explain himself. Despite the darkness, he could tell the ghost's body was cycling through its forms rapidly. "I-I need to check on Philippe."

He rather immediately regretted his poor choice of words.

o.o.o.o

End chapter 05

A/N: Don't forget to R/R (Read and Review)!  
Chapter Review: Most evil cliffhanger ever. So, possessive!Erik did show up. What do you know?

I need to apologize because I had to cut this chapter in half in order to be able to post it today. I am sincerely sorry – poor time management skills on my part. However, this does mean that since I just need to edit the second half that I've already written out, you'll get a quicker update.

Happy Halloween.


	6. the unpredictability of ghosts and guest

Fandom(s): Phantom of the Opera & Beauty and the Beast  
Disclaimer: Please don't sue. I don't own *insert fandom name from above*... All I own is an overactive imagination.  
Summary: POTO take on Beauty and the Beast. So, it's technically not a crossover, just a different telling of the fairy tale.  
Warning(s): slash   
Pairing(s): Erik/Raoul  
Word Count: 4,009

A/N: I'm not quite sure this was a quicker post as I'd said previously. It _is_ a week later than I'd rather expected, but at least it's a post. :D Oh, the upcoming holiday season buries me further into fandom. You'll see what I mean sooner than later.  
Story note: Will Erik ruin the small bit of empathy that Raoul already feels towards him? Let's hope not.

o.o.o.o

La Belle et la Bete  
By: Lucifer Rosemaunt

Chapter 06 – the unpredictability of ghosts and guests

o.o.o.o

Along the wall where they stood, the candles flickered and died by a sudden burst of frigid air, strong enough to distort the sound of the horn section of the orchestra – that, however, was the only indication that the orchestra had even been affected.

Raoul shuddered against the cold. Cringing, he stumbled backwards into the wall rather violently, suddenly unable to breathe. Each inhale resulted in a piercing pain in his throat; each exhale seemingly torn from him produced a visible cloud of vapors. He pressed further against the wall when the ghost, despite his position by the door, seemed to crowd him. The thin air only served to make the ghost's presence feel even more distinct, a heavy menace that threatened to do more than simply suffocate him.

Philippe's shredded shirt came unbidden to his mind, and he held his arms crossed before him in the vain hope to shield himself from whatever onslaught was impending.

"Your brother is here?" The roar was like the low rumble of thunder and Raoul could feel it move through him, through the very wall itself, making his heart stumble in the race it was already running.

The ghost made an aborted movement forward. It was only the knowledge of what would happen if he laid hands on the youth in his current temperament that held him back. There was not a single doubt in his mind that he would tear the boy apart. Even in the red haze of fury that seemed to cloud his mind, he knew that was the one outcome he wished to avoid. Still though, he could see it, the pale cast of his past misdeeds suffusing the area, surrounding them so that he was compelled to teach the boy there was no escape, teach him the only way he knew how, through pain and force.

But, the lifeblood that would be spilt would be overmuch, saturated with the promise of a future too full of potential that he would have stolen in vain. He was fairly certain it would lead only to madness if so much as a drop of Raoul's blood touched him.

The feel of blood in this form was sickening. Perhaps it was yet another means to teach him a lesson, to show him that it should have always been sickening. When he'd simply been ghost by name alone, he had never given the fluid, viscous in large amounts, a second thought. He had not reveled in it nor had he sought it out; blood had merely been a consequence of many necessary actions. Now, any blood spilt lingered on his skin even when his form appeared to have none. It penetrated deeper, diffusing through that meager barrier. It crept through his own veins and coated organs and bones so that he could suffer the loss of the future taken from them – another's blood, another's life infiltrating his very being, heavy, pervasive, and repulsive.

It was a perverse intrusion more intimate than anything he had ever experienced in his life, an intrusion that he had thankfully managed to avoid in the many years after first discovering it. No, he avoided careless physical encounters with trespassers. When touch became necessary, he always focused on making contact with clothing alone.

Yet, it was not entirely the idea of Raoul's blood on him that kept him at bay. It was much simpler than that. Raoul was not the focus of his ire so much as it was the older brother, the one who dared to try to take what was now his. His mind filled with the many ways to kill someone without having to truly touch them even as he sought a way to remain with Raoul and still leave to investigate if his brother were in fact present.

Peeking from the space between his upraised arms, Raoul saw that the ghost seemed at the cusp of action. The candles further from them were all extinguishing in a series, fleeing from them in a chase around the perimeter of the theatre until even the stage was cast into darkness. Despite it all though, the opera did not falter – though Raoul hardly noticed it. Only a handful of candles on the chandelier escaped being extinguished, casting an eerie glow upon them all. The visibility of the seats faded the further away from the stage until it seemed as though they extended to the horizon. The performers became dancing wraiths as even the flamboyant costumes were lost to darkness, flickers of harried motion and gestures. And worse yet, the ghost grew; his shadow increased, cast against the closed doors behind him, unfurling as though wings from a fallen angel.

"No," Raoul quickly assured, surprisingly more afraid for his brother even though he wasn't there. He tentatively lowered his hands though he flinched away from him. "My _horse_." The puff of air exhaled with the word seemed to linger before his eyes so that even the outline of the man that was now more biblical apparition than substance was further obscured. "It's my horse."

There was a tense moment when Raoul was certain the ghost was not going to believe him, when despite the fact that his sight said the contrary, he was certain the ghost had moved even closer. Then, the candles on the stage burst back to life, and as one, the candles in the perimeter of the theatre barring the ones nearest them began to burn once more as though nothing had happened. The avenging angel was once more simply a man. The low rumble that he hadn't realized had continued to sound finally desisted and he once again registered the opera, though just barely over his pounding heartbeat. The tight knot of fear within him relaxed fractionally when the frigid air that had enveloped them finally dissipated until he was left with nothing but the waning ache of his throat and the chill clinging to his clothing.

The ghost's next words, though grating, were spoken haltingly, in what Raoul interpreted as suspicion. "You named your horse Philippe?"

The creature didn't believe it to be a lie. He was certain now that Raoul was incapable of lying, not when his emotions were apparently so straightforward. He would have scoffed at such simplicity if it had been less of a novelty. Fear, sadness, despair, curiosity. It was all so clear in his expressive eyes: wide open, downcast, pleading. It was in the way he leaned forward or shied away. And right now, even though Raoul was worrying the hem of his cuff, he had moved away from the wall and his attention was completely focused on him.

Raoul nodded, wide-eyed. Hesitant, but calming by fractions, he realized that though he may want to help the ghost, it would be more difficult than he'd initially thought because of such intense reactions. "I left my _horse_" – he emphasized even further with a pause "in front, and I thought to make sure he was well." The shadows retreated further and Raoul looked to see the candle beside him burn once more.

The creature's ire had faded just as quickly as it had come, no longer having an opponent to focus upon, but despite the reassurance that the blond hadn't been trying to escape, he found that he could not stifle the lingering urge to truly imprison Raoul, to chain him to the opera house and especially to himself.

"Your horse has already been taken to the stables," the ghost assured. He knew that the others had already taken care of it; they would have found such a task a godsend. Now, he wondered if he shouldn't have ordered them to dispose of the wretched animal instead. It would be a constant reminder of the blond's past, a tie that should be severed.

"Oh." Raoul could not help but feel disappointed. He had wanted to see Philippe not only because of his concern, but to feel some semblance of familiarity. Though beautiful, the opera house was vast. To him, it felt cold and foreign, as was the way befitting for an outsider. And, while he knew he could not remain with Philippe indefinitely, he rather wanted to indulge in what he knew to be a weakness, finding refuge with his horse to comfort himself, to remind himself why he was here when his family, his whole life was kilometers away in an inn that despite its hardships had somehow become so much more.

"Do you not believe me?" The grating noise jerked Raoul from his wistful thoughts.

"I do," Raoul stated simply and reminded himself that he was here _for_ his family and that despite the chances of it, there was familiarity within the ghost himself.

The creature faltered. There had been no hesitancy in Raoul's response. Not a moment, not a breath of pause. The once viscount truly did believe him – yet another unfamiliar experience. He had fully been prepared to lead him to the stable, had prepared for the detour. He briefly wondered at his own generosity but discarded his own suspicion at the atypical behaviour. It was a necessary concession in keeping the boy as a long time guest, just as much as preparing the room had been both necessary and uncommon.

Raoul straightened, forcing himself to focus on the moment. There would probably be time later to visit; he could at least wait until after they had eaten. "I'll be pleased to join you for dinner," he continued their aborted conversation. The ghost seemed to have calmed. The impeccable suit lingered for a little longer before he saw lungs expand then deflate. In fact, Raoul realized rather suddenly, he had more of a reason to be here now. The man in front of him needed him just as much as his family did; after all, he had done some ill to him that needed to be remedied.

The doors swung open suddenly, and the ghost turned abruptly to leave the auditorium, making a sharp left down the hallway from where Raoul had come. Momentarily surprised, Raoul had to jog to catch up.

The creature was uncertain however, as to whether he appreciated being caught unawares so often when it came to the boy's decisions and actions. The idea of keeping someone here in an effort to change the monotony, in an effort to cheat the curse since he had not been able to break it, had teased his thoughts through many years. However, it had never occurred. There had never been the correct person. He may have grown tired of their very existence before ever setting eyes on them, their cowering and sniveling always angering him to the point of violence. He wondered how long it would take before he grew tired of the blond who followed him so trustingly, before that trust would disappear and Raoul would become yet another cowering trespasser. It should not take too long, he knew, but still, he hoped this little sheep would follow him further.

The trip to the dining hall was silent save for the sound of Raoul's footsteps, but he hardly noticed. He followed a few paces behind the ghost, watching in fascination as the candles flickered in and out in order to keep the ghost's face in shadow. He wondered if it was done naturally, as some effect of him being a ghost or intentionally, as a courtesy to him so that he would be less frightened. The ghost was still hiding his face, and he wasn't sure whether that was good or not. Surely, it would harm his efforts to help him, but that could always be addressed later – as curious as Raoul was, he admitted only to himself that he was still frightened to see his face.

He wondered if Philippe had seen the phenomenon with the candles or if he'd been taken captive too quickly. His story mentioned nothing of the sort. The ache of thinking of his brother and sisters still stung, but he pushed it back. The ghost was providing him confusion enough. It was unexpected that the ghost was being civil; perhaps it should not have truly been unexpected though. The hospitality that Philippe had received was quite prominent in his mind. Maybe the ghost had lost his temper with Philippe, and after the outburst in the auditorium, Raoul was certain his temper was something to be avoided. He vowed to be civil to the ghost no matter what happened, mindful of the damage they were apparently both capable of.

He worked on quelling the instinctual fear he felt whenever he looked upon the ghost. It was easier now that he had spoken to the man, but his doubts still lingered. He came to the conclusion that he could do nothing to do but be forthright in his fears, else he further harm what kindness the ghost was showing him.

Before they reached their destination, he spoke, his voice loud in the empty hallways. "Are you going to consume me?"

The ghost paused and Raoul quickly following suit, mindful of the distance between them. The creature had heard that sentiment before. It was almost cruelly funny that they thought he consumed people. They had more power over his being than he himself. Thanks to the curse, they were the ones leaving indelible marks upon him, further scarring and marring his features. Their disgust was so clear to him now. He briefly wondered if the blond could mark him as well, if one so meek could mar him. He glanced at Raoul over his shoulder. It was an absurd thought.

Raoul was caught by a glimpse of a bare, unblemished shoulder, all pale skin, before it turned into a suit jacket.

"No," the ghost answered directly. He didn't disabuse him of the idea that he supposedly did in fact consume victims at all. "You are to be my prisoner as was promised."

Shaking his head, Raoul took a moment to refocus. That had been the first time he'd actually seen skin pulled tight over muscle, not torn and hanging from bone. He stared to see if he would catch another glimpse of skin, of the man, but all there was were clothes and what lay beneath his skin, decaying flesh and muscle. The words finally registered and the relief wasn't as great as he had hoped. A lifetime here. A lifetime with this ghost even after he might've helped him heal whatever pain he had caused. He doubted he would be able to see his family ever again.

Seeing Raoul's brow furrow, the ghost resumed walking, refusing to allow himself to see the pained expression he knew was certain to follow.

But after a few steps, Raoul asked, "You will leave my siblings alone?" in a voice so pained that it took all the ghost's will to not turn around. He had seen suffering his entire life, inspired some, experienced most, and he was suddenly certain this fragile creature would be the end of him, the end of the suffering he knew only to be introduced to a new kind.

For a moment, he despised how the boy could make him lose his focus, the way the boy easily affected him, but mostly the way he could not seem to bring himself to care. It was better than the alternative. For all the emotions he lacked, the dulled, muted emotions he could barely feel besides constant anger and despair, he was beginning to see that the blond felt the slightest hint of emotion a hundred times over. It was so easy to see and Raoul even exuded it, projected his own emotions as though in some attempt to fill the void of the ghost's own. The creature had little recourse, little ability to do anything but receive it; the feeling was novel, as though rediscovering not quite the ability to bleed so much as the ability to heal.

A door to their right opened and the ghost entered, staying just inside the doorway. Raoul followed, and despite the fact that he was cast in a darkness so deep, he was momentarily blinded, he could distinctly feel how close they were as he passed. It was the closest he had gotten to the ghost since his arrival.

Before he had completely passed, the ghost replied. "Yes." Raoul shuddered to hear the rasping voice so near. "I will keep my word."

Raoul had a feeling the ghost was staring at him, and he paused for a mere second, enough time to catch a sentence more exhale than words that he was certain the ghost hadn't meant to say them at all.

"I believe I have all I need."

There was a hint of emotion in that sentence, too faint for Raoul to catch completely. It left him feeling rather anxious though, a tightening of his chest, a tremor through his limbs. It was different from the fear of before, different from anything he'd ever felt in his entire life. He had little time to contemplate his own reaction though, for once he was far enough inside the room that he was once more bathed in candlelight, he became distracted. The room was furnished with a long table that looked to fit at least twenty people, just as Philippe had described, including a fireplace to the side. However, unlike his brother's tale, it was bare of food. There were two setplacings, one at the head of the table and one to its right.

Raoul headed directly for the seat to the right, telling himself the rather persistent discomfort in his stomach was mere hunger and not from what he had heard from the ghost's voice. He lingered behind the seat, waiting for the ghost to sit first. That much he remembered from his etiquette lessons. He glanced around the room, almost hoping that perhaps there would be someone else there. The sound of a chair moving brought his attention back to the ghost who gave the impression of waiting for him rather expectantly even though he himself had barely taken his seat.

He quickly sat, and almost immediately, a servant appeared with a tray beside him. He started slightly, hastily grabbing the napkin to place on his lap while a bowl of soup floated to be placed before him. He couldn't stop the reflexive motion of taking in a deep breath of what he guessed to be beef consommé.

Blushing, he belatedly realized how rude his action had been. He averted his eyes. His mouth watering, he waited, staring longingly at the clear soup while casting furtive glances towards the ghost's empty plate.

"You may eat." Raoul immediately looked up. The ghost motioned and his arm thankfully stayed clothed; however, Raoul's hunger probably would not have been deterred had he seen bone instead.

Raoul looked around for the servant to appear with the ghost's food. "But…"

"I require no sustenance."

Although he paused once more, Raoul needed no more urging. Still, he dipped his spoon slowly and subtly took in the scent once more, the steam warming him from the inside. The first mouthful was enough to make him close his eyes in pleasure. The strong distinctive flavor of beef and vegetables, so different from the stew that his family had made do for the past months, was near bliss. He had forgotten food could taste as something more than the heavy gravy mixed with unknown ingredients.

The creature stared at the quirk of Raoul's lips, the content little sigh that escaped after the second spoonful, more eager than the first. He truly had no real need for food. To him, the sustenance was bland and he could go days without meals. Every now and then, he would eat, but like everything else, it too was a poor mimicry of what should have been.

This opera house was now unquestionably _his_. He had free reign of the hallways, but there was no need to walk through them. He was undisturbed by others hunting for him, yet it only highlighted his own isolation. He was waited on, yet he needed nothing. His body shifted through its forms quickly at his thoughts, but it abruptly froze: chest clothed in a torn jacket and ragged shirt, the bones of his elbow jutting out of a fraying sleeve. Raoul stared at the bowl, a look of surprise and confusion crossing his features before he settled on a slight pout when he realized the soup was gone.

The creature could only stare at him. He could not recall ever before feeling such desperation; desperate for what? He was still uncertain. It festered and roiled within him, consuming him from the inside. Every emotion, every expression he saw from Raoul seemed to illuminate a deprivation he hadn't realized existed in his cursed life, that he could not recall if he'd even had before the curse. And, he was torn between hatred for the youth and near jealousy of him. Being around his guest was proving to be more difficult than he'd expected. How many years had it been since he had been so long in the presence of another? He was discovering he had very little control over himself.

His heart beat a heavy thud and it seemed as though time once again continued. Without his anger and suspicion, he was unbalanced and worse yet, because of the curse, exposed, exposed to react so fully to every minute action made by his guest. The creature forced himself to look away. He needn't call for the next course for he knew the entire staff was watching nearby – the slight gap at the servants' entrance was indicative of such attention.

Raoul's eyes widened, seeing the plate of braised beef on a bed of steamed collard greens placed before him. He didn't think he'd be able to finish it all. He looked towards the ghost, giving an apologetic smile. He'd been so focused on eating, he'd forgotten about the other man.

"I… it's quite good. Are you certain you do not wish to eat?" Raoul immediately felt foolish for his question. The ghost had already told him that he needed no sustenance to survive, but the man still made him nervous. He hadn't known what else to say.

The ghost still refused to look directly at him, but he asked, barely stopping himself from clearing his throat – he knew such an action would do nothing for his voice. "Are you not frightened?"

Raoul placed the eating utensils down to consider the question. He wiped his mouth with the napkin to stall. "By the others? Or you?"

"Both." The ghost's attentions were inextricably drawn back to the youth despite his desire to avoid looking too long upon him.

"Yes." Raoul thought of the dancing clothes and a slight tremble of fear passed through him if he thought upon it too long, but so far they had done nothing to him. "And… yes." It was truly unsettling but his fear was unfounded because the ghost had promised. "But it is a curiosity."

The ghost narrowed his eyes at him. "You are, too."

Raoul felt the ghost's heavy gaze upon him once more. Although he looked away, feeling himself fidget under such attention, he furtively glanced in his direction and saw long, pale fingers resting on the table.

The ghost suddenly rose. "You may explore any part of the opera house save for the cellars." His voice was louder than normal and he barely managed to croak out the end of the sentence.

Raoul hastily stood up too, confused. He was just putting his napkin down and the ghost was already across the room, the room illuminating in his absence. Realizing that he was not going to stop, Raoul blurted out, not quite sure why but needing to know, "And the gardens?"

The ghost paused at the doorway, his body a jumble of shifting forms. "You may not go there without me."

"How…?"

The ghost was gone already.

Raoul finished lamely, "How will I find you?"

o.o.o.o

End chapter 06

A/N: Don't forget to R/R (Read and Review)!  
Chapter Review: I feel really horrible saying this, but I may have just developed some sort of blood!kink. XD

Oh, and I use an overabundance of metaphors here (not just this chapter, just in general) rather indiscriminately. I know. I know that I should stick to one and carry it through like a proper writer, but I guess I'm more interested in using as many as I can.

Erik's having a hard time controlling himself. First with touch, now with his emotions… just what does the curse do to him? Or is it just Erik being his normal mercurial self?


	7. music of the night

Fandom: Phantom of the Opera & Beauty and the Beast  
Disclaimer: Please don't sue. I don't own *insert fandom name from above*... All I own is an overactive imagination.  
Summary: POTO take on Beauty and the Beast. So, it's technically not a crossover, just a different telling of the fairy tale.  
Warning(s): slash  
Pairing(s): Erik/Raoul  
Word Count: 4,096

A/N: I really miss the days when I was certain this was going to be a oneshot. :( Oh, and I honestly couldn't help but have this title. XD I tried to stop myself, but it amused me to such a great degree that I could do nothing but allow it to remain. (I apparently appreciate clichéd titles too much.)  
Story note: I despise this chapter for the trouble it's given me.

It is very much a la the fairy tale. And we get more revealed about Erik. :D Oh, and I had this outlined for a while and have just now realized that the inspiration of Go Where I Cannot Follow and a part of Eyes Need Not See came directly from this chapter. You'll see it. (I recycle moments far too often for my tastes. And the worse thing is that I don't realize it until later.) Sisters' names taken from Go Where I Cannot Follow (in head!canon, those are their names).

o.o.o.o

La Belle et la Bete  
By: Lucifer Rosemaunt

Chapter 07 – music of the night

o.o.o.o

Several years had already passed since any of the Changys had last vacationed at their beach house, or at least, what had once been their beach house. Yet, it was always with an intense fondness that Raoul thought of it.

His parents' funeral had invaded every room, hallway, and living space in their home and estate in Chagny. Dark garb and silent processions of somber faces had followed them on the road, to every city, and even as they had momentarily sought refuge in their country home. At the time, they had yet to realize that there would be no refuge, that there was no longer a place to call _home_. Now, two months from the first year anniversary of their parents' deaths, they had still yet to find one, and in the face of their more recent failure at keeping together what little family they had left, it was becoming all too obvious that they were ill-prepared at understanding the method of creating one.

Somehow, in Raoul's mind, the melancholy of loss and displacement had at least excluded the small stretch of sand and shoreline of the beach house, which now housed all of his remaining happy, familial memories. As doggedly as he stored those memories though, he rarely willingly revisited them. They highlighted the gaps and emptiness that he had no means of ever filling; so, instead of keeping them close to his thoughts, he kept them close to his heart. Even the bittersweet emotions they evoked were better than the despair that every so often threatened to consume him.

This would not be the first time he had dreamt of the beach house though. Once a month, once a week if the days were particularly bad, he would find himself walking along the familiar shoreline. In his dream, the sun always sat upon the horizon, fixed at the moment of sunrise, and he knew it to be sunrise. It could not be anything but, not with the way the sky was lightened a pale blue with a striation of muted green clearly delineating where evening collided with morning. Nearer the horizon, the soft yellow abruptly bled to a vibrant orange before the deep, scarlet that radiated from the sun itself overpowered it, and there, across where ocean buoyed the sky, flame and fervor were smeared. He had often pondered how something as violent as the sun could engender such oft-underappreciated splendor.

The gentle breeze would tug him toward the beach house while the familiar give of sand beneath his bare feet would sooth the restive anxiety caused by the vestiges of uncertainty felt in his waking hours, a disquiet that Raoul had yet to learn how to tame even within his sleep. The rush of the waves would welcome him home, invite him to remain here forever, and he would be tempted because his treasured memories were in every part of this place.

He could lift up a sand dollar and the very universe would shudder until he was but a child sitting upon the floor of his father's den. He should have been drawing, but much of his time there was spent watching his father work. The count never looked as imposing as he did than when he was behind his desk, but whenever his father glanced over at him, he never failed to share a secret little smile, as though the stern voice directed at his valet was nothing more than a ruse.

Or, Raoul could spot a lonely cloud slowly drifting over the ocean before he was lying on the grass in their garden, staring up at a nearly identical bright sky. In that memory, he closed his eyes to better focus on Philippe good-naturedly teasing his sister, Amelie, and hear her indignant reply before Mathilde would come to her defense. Just an instant later, he held his breath to hear his parents and siblings, a concert of such carefree laughter that made Raoul feel as though he were flying.

The cry of a seagull; his siblings' indulging him in some childish recreation on the lawn. A curtain blown by the breeze; his mother's gentle touch. The roll of waves; the murmur of voices that had shaped the very way he heard the world. It was all at the beach house.

At the moment though, there was neither bright sky nor roar of the ocean. He could not feel the sand beneath his feet or the warmth of the morning sun. Yet, he expected to hear and see those landmarks soon, as though the dream was a mere thought away.

There was a distinctive quality about residing near a body of water. The air was always a little fresher, so very different from that of the country or the city. Crisp. Everything was a sharp focus by the ocean.

Raoul knew that was simply his own memory playing tricks on him because if he tried, he could remember the fog, the heavy obscurity that would descend on his family to ruin their holiday. He could conjure up the bitter cold, similar to the one that was actually now creeping into his bones, but memories, fond memories always eliminated those inconsistencies.

Yet, it was not the encroaching chill that drew him further into awareness. He could push that inconvenience from his thoughts. It was a slight discomfort that was familiar only because of the aftermath of his parents' deaths and the dissolution of their assets: the chill of camping on a harsh road to an unknown destination, the meager _kindness_ that distant relations showed, a drafty inn that was still somehow more than they could afford. No, it was not the chill that roused him from his slumber; he had slept through worse. It was the air. It was the breath of heavy air, the one associated with their beach house that roused him as he desperately struggled to capture that dream, needing it now more than ever.

A gentle sway tried to lull Raoul back to oblivion instead; as tempting as that was, the sound of water lapping against a hard surface caught his attention instead. Instinctively, he pulled the blanket higher on himself but the small movement caused the bed upon which he lay to shift suddenly. His stomach lurched at the sudden pitch to the right. His 'bed' righted itself with residual rocking once he stilled. Tense, he opened his eyes and found the action useless because of the darkness in which he found himself. He tentatively reached out to feel about him: planks of wood worn from constant use and the edge of what he now assumed to be a small boat.

He was just starting to leverage himself to a sitting position when the boat jerked to a stop, the sound of wood scraping against stone making him wince and the jolt throwing him against the edge of the boat before he fell back down. His left arm throbbed at the impact. After a moment, once he was certain the boat had indeed run ashore, Raoul gingerly peered over the edge.

A multitude of lit candelabras crowded the shore near him and further beyond that more inky darkness. Behind him, the reflected flames danced upon the surface of a glassy lake, on ripples that had spread from the disturbance the boat had created. The shadowed undulations momentarily teased a memory, but the moment passed too quickly for him to fully grasp, leaving him with only a mild sense of tightness in his chest.

He climbed out of the boat on shaky legs, clutching the blanket to himself. Barefoot and in only cream, silk pajamas, he shivered. It was only when he wrapped the blanket about himself that he realized it was actually a cloak.

Before he could ponder the presence of the cloak, though that was hardly more notable than waking up in the middle of a lake, a melody disturbed the relative quiet. It sounded like a lullaby, weaving through the candles and flowing into the lake, as though contained by the water lapping on the stone shore yet still somehow spreading further. The notes echoed, a thinning of sound as it expanded, swelling much further than Raoul had expected, higher and wider. He peered once more into the darkness over the lake and could barely make out the walls, rocks smoothed by time and effort. He briefly wondered at the curiousness of a lake deep within an underground cavern before he was distracted by the fact that he was certain he had heard this melody before in his life. He could almost imagine his mother humming it to him.

The bottom of the cloak trailed on the floor as he walked toward what he hoped to be the source of such lilting notes. He could not help but marvel at the sheer volume of lit candles as they dulled the sharp edges of the ornate, floor candelabras. At each base, two winged-canine sentinels sat proudly on their haunches, maws hanging open to reveal jagged teeth as they jeered at their neighbors. A thick spiral column rose at their backs and from it, a lean, almost skeletal, figure of a demon from knee to head formed the vast majority of the central column, as though emerging from a whirlwind. In its hands were pikes held in a 'v' the length of its body. Over its head and twisted sneer, a brier of feathers had been fashioned into a deliberate flurry, as though following a burst of destruction. They were damaged wings that Raoul realized were probably more from a fallen angel than a hell-born demon. It was within the ruin of such desolate plumage that the candles were nestled.

The air was slightly warmed; the smell of wax accompanied him as he walked onward. Soon, the number of candelabras thinned, giving way to furniture, tables and chairs perhaps, but Raoul could only guess since they were all covered. Heavy canvas had been laid upon them while layers of dust and cobwebs showed their disuse. Passing a piece taller than him, he saw what might've been his reflection peeking from a poorly wrapped, full-length mirror, but his eyes were instead drawn to the back of a man sitting on the only furnishings besides the candelabras that were uncovered, a bench and along with it, an organ made of such odd ends, twisted tubes and scrap metal piecemealed together that Raoul wondered how it managed to produce such clear notes.

With bated breath, he drew closer, focusing on slick black hair, a black suit, and glimpses of pale hands caressing yellowing ivory keys. As he approached, he realized that he had been mistaken. The organ and bench were not the only things uncovered; an ornate upholstered chair was situated beside it. A slight movement from the man, his head turning slightly to the left, as though acknowledging him spurred him onward. The movement was so slight however that he could not be sure he hadn't imagined it.

It was with a detached sense of curiosity that he realized this must be a dream because as cautious as he knew he should be, he felt less anxiety with this stranger in this strange place than common sense dictated. Pulling the cloak tighter around himself, he silently crept forward, so as not to distract the musician further. So focused on his task, it wasn't until he was seated that he looked at him fully. Raoul's eyes widened in surprise to see a porcelain mask covering half his face; the other half of his face looked so completely normal, handsome even, that he could not help but wonder what could possibly be hidden.

The masked man was intently focused on the sheet music before him, but when Raoul followed his line of sight, the staffs were blank. Or rather, Raoul considered, he simply could not see them. There was no purpose to seeing the notes; he had the barest of musical knowledge and only that, because his sisters had once been taught to play the piano. He had simply sat in the parlor during their lessons.

"What do you want?" the musician asked so suddenly Raoul's heart actually jumped a bit in shock. His voice was pitched low and its brusqueness provided a stark contrast to the music he was playing.

Suddenly unsure of himself, Raoul moved to stand. "I…"

But his movement prompted a second query, "Where do you think you are going?"

He froze, half out of the seat, but seeing that the man's eyes had never once moved from the sheet music, he stood up. Unsure of what to do, he simply waited for any further suggestion from the musician. There was the boat, but he did not recall seeing any oars. So, he _could_ leave, but he was not quite certain that he knew how to. He wasn't even certain that the musician wanted him to leave. Left standing there without a response, he found his gaze lingering on the mask as he considered his situation.

"Stop staring." And though Raoul saw his lips move, he could not quite convince himself that the man before him was indeed the source of such abrupt manner of speech. The musician was impeccably dressed and sat with such perfect posture. He exuded a stillness, a tranquility that seemed to flow through his fingers as he pressed, not pounded, the keys.

When he realized that he was in fact still staring, he looked away guiltily and replied, "I-I'm sorry. I have never seen a man wearing a mask such as yours before." What stood out even more than the mask, however, was the musician's voice.

Raoul straightened when from his peripherals he saw the masked man turn to look at him. In response, he stared at the organ pipes fixedly, willing the blood that had risen to his cheeks to abate. Some part of him knew that the man did not miss a single note in the song, a song he could not recognize but somehow still knew.

"Well?" the musician said expectantly.

Raoul parroted, "Well?" Slowing turning just to meet his eyes, he realized that they were green, piercing enough to make him forget that a mask obstructed his view of the man's visage. His dreams had never been so real, his imagination never so specific. "I do not know how I came to be here."

The masked man stopped playing abruptly in the middle of what Raoul would have said was the refrain. "That does not answer the question."

Thinking on it, Raoul had to agree. He hadn't answered the question, but it was the only answer he had to give. Besides, he could hardly concentrate in the now uncomfortable silence, and the musician's voice was simply too distracting. It was commanding without having to be raised. In a way, it reminded him of Philippe, and not many people Raoul had ever met in his life had managed that.

The musician's voice was stern, almost as though he spoke a command that held with it an implicit threat against noncompliance. In this case though, it was something more than confidence. There _had_ to be something more to his voice because despite that edge of danger, despite his demeanor, Raoul was almost certain that he would remain here if only to hear this man speak a little more, to catch his every word. The curt sentences only teased at him, those mere glimpses of insight into the musician's character fascinating him.

Blushing at his peculiar thoughts, he quickly said, "I awoke in a boat." Hopefully, explaining how he came to be here would clarify that his presence was nothing more than happenstance and that he did not _want_ anything at all. Raoul glanced back the way he came only to find that he could not see the path he had taken nor could he see the covered furniture. He turned about quickly, eyes following the candelabras that had fashioned a ring about them, all at once breathtaking and frightening upon the realization that the circle was unbroken.

The man cleared his throat and Raoul looked at him. Surprisingly enough, he calmed a fraction at the rather neutral expression, enough so that he could finish his wayward thought, "I heard you playing."

Green eyes darted downward toward the chair. "Sit down."

Raoul paused, captivated by the way it had sounded as both a demand and a request. Doing as he was told, he sat and lifted his feet from the cold, stone floor, tucking them beneath him and in the process, managed to wrap himself completely in the cloak. When he was finally settled, the man returned his gaze back to the sheet music. Though his hands were poised above the keys, he did not play. He simply sat there, perfect posture, neutral expression, and eyes focused ahead.

Thinking once more about the question that had been asked of him, Raoul wondered, what _did _he want? A myriad of things large and small cycled through his mind, none of which would explain why, at the moment, he wanted to remain here. Here, in the soft glow of candlelight and finally warming, he wanted nothing more than to listen to this stranger speak or play once more.

If he was to request something of this man, etiquette dictated that introductions were in order. "Raoul," he blurted out, much louder than he would've liked in this silence. "My name is Raoul," he said at a near whisper, though he doubted the other man would have any problem hearing him. "May I stay to listen to you play?"

He shifted uncomfortably when he received no response, not a single indication that he had even been heard. After he could stand the silence no more, he added, "If it is no trouble of course. If I am bothering you…" He never knew a non-expression could be so… expressive, but he could easily tell that the man was not pleased with his request or the subsequent babbling.

This man wanted something of him, he just didn't… "I want," he hesitated. The request sounded foreign to his ears, foreign because he hadn't been able to truly want for something so selfish, so singularly for himself, despite its trivial nature in a while now – and the one time he had, it had caused his brother to come to harm. "I want to listen to you play."

He was certain the masked man rolled his eyes at the request, but it was difficult to tell from his angle. Still, the first notes started as a whisper, as quiet as his own introduction, so silent his own breaths hindered his ability to hear them. Shutting his eyes to listen clearer, he focused entirely upon the music. He needn't strain himself long because the melody dropped to the lower octaves and rose in volume, loud enough that he could feel it in his bones. He couldn't help but smile softly as he imagined himself being carried away by the very notes themselves, far away from everything.

That, though, was another selfish thought. He knew that there was no place in the entire world that he was supposed to be than here. Although, he did have to wonder where here was exactly. It _had_ to be a dream. It simply did not feel like any dream he'd ever experienced. And for the first time since waking in that boat, he let himself think of where he should be, in a borrowed bed in borrowed clothes. Anything seemed possible in the opera house however: invisible stewards, dancing dresses, and floating trays. Dreams that felt like he was truly seated beside a masked man in a cave listening to music played from an ingenuously constructed organ _must_ be commonplace. After all, the opera house was overseen by a ghost that had no set form.

A single note extended as his thoughts turned onto the impossibility that was the ghost and then all was silent once more. Raoul opened his eyes then. The man's hands were gently resting on the keys, his head slightly turned and eyes fixed on him.

Feeling self-conscious, Raoul wondered exactly how long the man had been watching him. He ventured a smile before commenting, "That was beautiful."

The man scowled and standing up, pushed the bench back. Its legs caught upon the ground and for a long moment, it hung precariously on two legs before it clattered to the floor. Raoul tried to untangle his limbs to stand but became caught in the cloak. It didn't matter since the man was before him in a second, a hand pressing him down into the chair.

The masked man spat, "Do not presume to tell me what is beautiful." And unlike the ghost he had just been thinking of, there was no doubt that this was a flesh and blood man, and one no less suffocating in his very presence.

When the hand upon his shoulder gripped tighter, Raoul cringed away from him with a wince. "I apologize, Monsieur. I-I…"

The thumb digging into his shoulder pressed harder for a second as the man's eyes glazed over. Just as quickly though, he abruptly took two deliberate steps away.

Raoul remained where he was, one leg on the floor, the cloak wrapped around it; his second leg perched on the edge of the seat. He had a difficult time convincing his heart to calm, but that was expected since a small part of him considered running away this instant. Except, he knew he was not going to.

The man gave him one last look, lip curling into something Raoul would have named disgust had he had more than a moment to see it, before he turned away from him completely. Raoul shifted, attempting to untangle his leg from the cloak. How approaching this man was even an option when he appeared to be unhinged, he did not know, but trying to flee from this moment, a cusp of some import, seemed to be the least desirable option.

The masked man took a deep breath before slowly letting it out, his shoulders dropping in the process. "Stay," he said.

He turned slowly, and Raoul, who hadn't made any progress in untangling his leg, blinked several times before he even registered what had been said. The man was looking at him again, uncertainty easy to read now that Raoul had heard it in that single word. He didn't know what to say, but slowly, he lifted his leg to settle in something close to his original position. That seemed to be answer enough since the man righted the bench before standing motionless beside it.

His voice was clipped, just as tense as his posture when he spoke, "Do you want to hear me play more?"

Raoul nodded hesitantly. "Yes?"

Smoothly, the masked man slid onto the bench. "Erik," he muttered, making certain to avoid his gaze when he spoke.

Nodding again more vigorously, Raoul reiterated, "Yes, Erik. I want to hear you play."

The man complied immediately. This new melody had a creeping tempo and was a bit mournful. The pauses between the notes became as part of the melody as the notes themselves.

Raoul realized suddenly that he had been wrong. Erik's voice wasn't very much like Philippe's, at least not in what it informed. Philippe was rather sincere if not completely straightforward, and his voice reflected that. Erik, on the other hand, was awkward, almost clumsy even in his interactions, but his voice was completely different. It was somehow stronger and altogether self-assured in itself. His voice reminded him of the music the man was playing, as though it were an extension of his very self; the silences meaning as much if not more than the words themselves.

If Raoul couldn't hear the man speak more than terse sentences, his music would be an acceptable consolation. He said aloud to himself, "I think I shall always want to hear you play."

When Erik abruptly turned to look at him, he realized he'd spoken aloud. He muttered embarrassedly, "Well, I shall."

Erik scrutinized him a moment longer before turning forward once more, closing his eyes, and Raoul was almost certain that he'd said something wrong. He closed his eyes for a moment too, to think and it was only because his entire attention was focused on Erik that he heard him whisper.

"If only our wants could last that long."

When Raoul opened his eyes to ask him what that meant, he awoke.

o.o.o.o

End chapter 07

A/N: Don't forget to R/R (Read and Review)!  
Chapter Review: Yes, it was a dream. :D But hey! Erik finally makes an appearance. Well, Erik!Erik not ghost-cursed!Erik (since _he_ already made an appearance).

I sort of cheated with the candelabra. Well, not really cheat since I wanted it to have at least some basis with the candelabra in Erik's home, so inspiration was here – www(dot)costumearmour(dot)com(slash)cdfl(dot)can(dot)htm. I changed some things of course.


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